Can You Not Pay the Rent-Boy?

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We agreed on £60. That’s reasonable, I messaged him, but I’d like something in return. So he writes back, something along the lines of: You can’t have a pound of my flesh, but I’d consider most other things. He was what I liked: tall and skinny, with a nice mop of curly black hair. I’ve been thinking about paying for sex for a while now, wondering what it would be like, and here’s a guy who’s offering himself for about half the going rate. Goodkoop is duur koop, as they say in Afrikaans, but what the heck – whatever happened, I’d put it down to experience.

So I showered, tidied my bedroom, shook out the rug. I don’t have to be nervous, I thought. I’m paying for this. I don’t have to pretend to be cool or such a big top, because I’m paying for the hour; the hour that he’s here for is my hour. I can do whatever I want, be whatever I want. (How was I to know that he’d be a miserable faux-teenager and a very bad fuck). Now as I type I wonder what it was about me that made him approach me online. Did I look like the kind of guy who’d pay for sex? Was I that age, an age when he might have met several men who’ve paid for his company? He claims to like opera, but is that just a way of attracting opera queens, men of a certain age and income who’d pay him. I’m not a big opera fan.

He agreed that I could take his picture, that I could put it up on my blog. Nothing too kinky, I reassured him. So I put my camera out on the dining table, and I hid everything that had my name on it… a couple of letters that had just arrived, a small package of books.

Does it feel like a change in status? I am now a man who has paid for sex. It doesn’t feel as momentous as the first time I got a blow job from my massage guy. I freaked out a bit back then, whacked by the realisation that I’d become one of those guys who got extras, who had happy endings at the end of his massage. But is that really, as I feared, something that only old men do? Can’t I be young and still pay for sex, a handjob, whatever. Isn’t it more about how you see money and sex, than how you see yourself on the sex scene?

So he arrives and he’s not as pretty as he is on his profile, not as young, not as slim. He is, I notice when he gets on his knees to suck my cock, balding. He’s reluctant to kiss, but he does. He’s reluctant to get fucked, but he does.

“We don’t have to do this,” I say, thinking: shouldn’t you be a bit more enthusiastic if this is your job.

“No, it’s fine,” he says.

“Would you rather I just used you?” I say.

“Yes,” he says.

But after some gentle thrusting, I remove my cock from his arse. It’s all a bit of a fiasco. The other complicated/amusing thing is that I realise at some point, quite early on, that I have a feeling we’ve met before, that I know who he is.

“Did you ever date a guy called Marcus?” I say.

So we chat about Marcus and why things never worked out between them. We agree that Marcus must be happier now.

“He’s double-barrelled his surname,” I say. “That must be a sign.”

His new boyfriend is French, a rich artist, young and successful. They look happy in the pictures on Facebook. All this is not a very interesting story. It has none of the drama that I’d been hoping for; none of the playfulness. I’d expected to have fun, to take pictures; I even thought I’d get him to put on the summer dress I bought once for a Brazilian guy I was in love with, and that he’d pose in it against the red wall in my living room. But what happens in the end is that I let him suck me off until I come. No, that’s not precise… at some point I get bored with his technique, take my cock into my own hands, and come on my stomach. He has this irritating habit of wiping his mouth after we kiss, whenever he surfaces from cocksucking.

“Do you want me to mention your Gaydar profile username,” I say when he first arrives and we’re getting undressed, thinking that perhaps he’d get some business from guys reading this blog.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not.”

But there’s no point, really. I wouldn’t recommend him. I don’t think he should be whoring; it’s not good for him, and he’s not going to bring anyone much pleasure. Or maybe he will. It takes two to make good sex, and I’d imagine there are men out there with whom he’d have a good time. He had a quick shower and came back into the living room to get dressed. I gave him the £60 that we’d agreed on.

“You’re very gracious,” he said.

“That was the deal,” I said, and lifted the towel off the back of the chair and took it to the bathroom to hang up to dry.